


With this wind blowing, and this tide

by Morvith



Series: Hey falcons [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, BAMF Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Did Not Betray The Team, Community: theoldguardkinkmeme, Dad!Booker, Dark Past, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Holding Hands, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Memories, Murder, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Pedophilia, Raised by The Team AU, Rescue, Slurs, Soft Booker | Sebastien le Livre, South Sudan never happened, Underage Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28599108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morvith/pseuds/Morvith
Summary: Andy told Nile she leads a team with two other immortals, but there arefourpeople waiting at the safe house.Joe was born in 1986, Nicky in 1989. They were meant to die as children, but Booker, Andy and Quýnh saved them, took them in and gave them a family and a future.It couldn't be forever, they all knew it... but it wasn't supposed to end in Goussainville, in blood and a hail of bullets.Somebody wanted to get at them, at their immortality and didn't care if Joe and Nicky died... Big mistake. Whoever they are, it's the last one they'll ever make.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache & Booker | Sebastien & Nile Freeman & Joe | Yusuf & Nicky | Nicolò & Quynh, Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Hey falcons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095638
Comments: 149
Kudos: 443





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Have you news of my boy Jack?”  
>  _Not this tide._  
>  “When d'you think that he'll come back?”  
>  _Not with this wind blowing, and this tide._
> 
> “Has anyone else had word of him?”  
>  _Not this tide  
>  For what is sunk will hardly swim.  
> Not with this wind blowing, and this tide._
> 
> (Rudyard Kipling, _My Boy Jack_ )

“Everyone, we're here. This is Nile.” Andy announces as she steps through the door.

Nile stops in her tracks, staring back at the four people inside the abandoned rectory – _four_ , not two, and assuming Andy is older than mandatory schooling, she doubts she's older than counting. Three men, one woman who briefly smiles at her as she passes by and throws her arms around Andy, kissing her.

Two of the men – one sitting at the table, curly black hair and dark eyes, black beard; the other standing at the stove, cooking, spiky brown hair and light eyes – exchange a glance and roll their eyes.

The third man stands – blond, very tall – reaches across the table and lightly slaps Curly upside his head. “Show some respect, you two. Hello, Nile. I'm Sébastien, but you can call me Booker. The lady is Quýnh and these two reprobates are Joe and Nicky.”

“Sorry,” the cook says, not sounding sorry at all, as he wipes his hands on a rag. “Welcome, Nile. I'm Nicky.” He offers her his hand.

A normal gesture. Polite. Common, yet it feels alien, out of place, almost as much as waking up after being shot in the head. She can't help but stare at his hand and... There's a band-aid on his pointer finger. “I thought our wounds healed.”

“Ah.” Nicky pulls back his hand and she suddenly feels guilty for her rudeness. “I thought Andy told you.”

“And you insisted on going, love.” Quýnh sighs.

Andy crosses her arms on her chest. “I was too busy dragging her along and dodging patrols. She wasn't exactly happy to come.”

“Sure, blame it on me...” Nile grumbles automatically.

Joe stands, moves next to Nicky and wraps an arm around his neck. The collar of his shirt shifts, partially uncovering a hickey on his collarbone. “The short version is that Nicky and I are not like the others, though we're still part of the family.”

It takes her a moment to understand what they mean. “You... you are human?”

“So are you,” Nicky says, firm and absolutely certain. “And everybody else in this room.”

Joe nods. “It's just that you, Andy, Quýnh and Booker don't stay dead.”

Nile stares. She doesn't even know where to start.

Booker awkwardly clears his throat. “You must have questions.”

“Food first.” Nicky announces, shrugging off both Joe's arm and his exaggeratedly wounded look and going back to the pots and pan on the ancient stove. “Explanations later. Do you have any allergies, Nile? Food intollerances?”

“No, nothing.”

“Do you want to sit down? Use the bathroom?” Quýnh asks. “You must be tired.”

Nile is tempted to say she is fine, but... she could actually use the bathroom. And some privacy. “Please tell me you have running water.”

Quýnh laughs, though Nile can't understand what's so funny about her question. “Of course. Come with me, I'll show you.”

She does need the toilet and, once she's done, she washes her hands and splashes some water on her face, but after that... She can't quite bring herself to go back out. In between the passing planes she can hear them through the door, chatting, and the sound of plates and cutlery being laid on the table, Nicky humming a song she doesn't recognize as he moves about the kitchen.

If she closed her eyes and ignored the voices, the words, just let them become background noise, she could pretend to be home.

She hides in there until Quýnh knocks and tells her dinner is ready.

At the table, they mostly talk about food – Andy compliments Nicky on his cooking, which is apparently nothing new, Nicky throws out menu ideas for the next few days, Joe, Booker and Quýnh offer suggestions or complaints and try to draw her in with little to no success until the conversation runs out into an awkward, tense silence.

Nile watches them and they watch her, like cats circling each other.

She puts her fork down. Might as well start. “So, are you good guys or bad guys?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Andy replies as she goes back for seconds.

“We fight for what we think is right.” Quýnh adds, taking a sip of water. “We do our best.”

And how do they decide what's right? But that's a big question, too big perhaps. Perhaps it's an unfair one. Besides, there's something else she wants to know just as much. “How are you in my dreams?”

She does not miss the look the three immortals – the other three immortals share. “You won't have to worry about that now that you have met all of us,” Andromache explains gently. “They'll stop.”

Nile raises her eyebrows. “Just like that?”

They all nod. “Exactly.”

“What's the point, then?”

“It's destiny,” Nicky offers, setting off groans and eye-rolling from the other immortals.

“You don't get a vote, Nicky.” Andy replies. He simply shrugs.

“In all seriousness, they do help us find each other.” Quýnh says. “It probably doesn't seem a big deal to you, but it used to take longer. Centuries, even.”

Nile stares at her, her mouth dry. “Centuries.” She repeats blankly. “How...how old are you, exactly?”

“I'm the youngest,” Booker says. “Or rather, was. I died in 1812. Napoleon's Russian campaign.” He adds something in French under his breath – Nile can't quite follow it, but it doesn't sound complimentary.

“Booker.” Joe admonishes him from across the table.

Nile's mind is still mildly stuck on the Napoleon thing. She turns to look at Andy and Quýnh, trying to guess their age. “So you two are older?”

Quýnh grins. “Well, I'm only 3465 years old. I was born at the time of the Hùng kings: I saw the end of the Khôn line and the rise of the Ðoài.” Nile tries to look knowledgeable, but something in her expression must give her away because Quýnh huffs and shakes her head. “Nevermind, Booker will lend you some books if you're interested.”

Booker doesn't look at all enthusiastic at the idea – for a moment he reminds her of her high school librarian, who used to treat library books as a dragon treats its hoard. She turns to Andy, not willing to drop the subject. “So you're the oldest”

Andy sighs. “I am.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Nile sees Joe cross his arms over his chest. Nicky leans back in his chair, waiting. “How old are you?”

Andy glares at her. “One does not ask a lady her age. Don't they teach you manners anymore?”

“You're older than manners, Andy,” Joe says, grinning.

“Ah! That's what you think!” She glares at him and Nicky both, but they look unconcerned. “We had manners. Just different ones. You and that other scapegrace there would have got yourselves killed in a second if you had run across my tribe.”

“Tribe?” Nile repeats.

Booker takes pity on her. “We hestimate she is between six and seven thousand years old. Probably closer to seven.”

Nile doesn't gape, but it's a near thing. She can't stop staring at Andy – dear God, she looks in her late thirties! Maybe forties, although if what they say of the Good Old Times that actually weren't all that good, perhaps she died in her twenties... “Are we talking the stone age?! Seriously?!”

Andy sighs and rolls her eyes. “I think they call it so now, yes. And before you ask, I did not live in a cave! Or ride on a dinosaur.” She adds with a glare at Nicky, who rolls his eyes at her while Booker, Joe and Quýnh laugh.

“I said I was sorry! Many times! You can't hold it against me forever.”

“I can and I will.”

Forever. It's a heavy word. “So we really never die?” She says softly, almost to herself, but they hear her anyway: abruptly, the atmosphere changes, all laughter stops. Booker looks down at the table, Quýnh and Andromache exchange a single glance, the kind that's worth an entire conversation. Even Nicky and Joe suddenly look nervous, uncomfortable.

“Nothing that lives can live forever.” Booker finally says.

“What does that mean?”

Andromache takes a deep breath. “There was another like us. Before Booker.”

“His name was Lykon,” Quýnh says softly, reverently, staring at her glass without actually seeing it. “He was a great warrior. A great friend.”

Andromache reaches out and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. Quýnh leans against her. “We travelled together for almost two thousand years. Then one day, his wounds just... stopped healing.” Quýnh closes her eyes. “And he died. That's what happens. We don't know when or why.”

Nile doesn't know what to do with this revelation. “Wait, so when you shot me, you could have killed me?!”

Andy shrugs, careful not to dislodge Quýnh. “I was pretty sure it wouldn't kill you. You're too new.”

Nile wants to argue, but Quýnh suddenly speaks without opening her eyes. “There's worse things than dying, child.”

Andromache goes stiff, though she immediately forces herself to relax again. Booker shudders. Nicky is visibly gritting his teeth and Joe takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, puts his elbows on the table and leans his chin on his hands.

Andromache whispers something against Quýnh's hair in another language Nile doesn't understand, but Quýnh replies in English. “No, she should know, too.” She opens her eyes and her gaze sends shivers down Nile's spine. “It happened some five hundred years ago, in England. Andromache and I were freeing heretics from the witch trials, until we were caught and tried for witchcraft ourselves. We were found guilty and sentenced to die.”

Nile suddenly has a very bad feeling about where this is going. “But you didn't.”

Andy leans back and closes her eyes. “We were seen reviving. Rather proved their case.” She rubs her hand against Quýnh's arm. “I can...”

“It's my story, Andromache.” Quýnh... it's hard to describe her voice. She sounds calm, in control, but rather like a frozen river looks calm and still. “They put me in an iron maiden, ever heard of them? And then they threw it into the sea miles away from land.”

Nile feels her breath catch in her throat. “So you were...”

  
“Trapped in there, drowning and reviving and drowning again.” Quýnh says. Joe and Nicky are staring at her as though they wish to hug her and never let go, or invent time travel and break some witch hunters' heads. Booker simply looks sick.

“They planned to do the same thing to me, I suppose,” Andy says tiredly. “But I managed to escape before they could. I spent years looking for Quýnh, trying to track down every single person who had been on that ship.”

Is that guilt in her voice? “But you found her. I mean...”

Andy shakes her head. “No, I didn't. The chains and locks rusted and she managed to break out.”

“It took about ten years, I think,” Quýnh confirms, then leans back and kisses Andy's cheek. “And another forty to find my poor Andromache again.”

“No dreams,” Nile whispers, horrified.

“Exactly.” Quýnh forces herself to smile, but it's a fragile, brittle thing. “When I was down there, there were times I would have gladly renounced my immortality, though now I'm glad I couldn't.”

Andromache takes a deep breath and opens her eyes again. “I guess we were lucky we didn't have to wait for Booker.”

“ _Very_ lucky,” Booker grumbles. “We probably couldn't have found you if we had looked for five hundred years straight.”

Part of Nile would very much like to be done with the entire evening, thank you. The other part still has questions. She turns to Nicky and Joe. “You said you are not immortal. How do you fit in...” she makes a vague gesture, unable to find the right words.

“They're part of the family.” Booker immediately says, an edge of warning in his tone.

Andy snorts. “They are a pain in the ass, that's what they are.”

“Aww, thank you, Andy!” Joe laughs and blows her a kiss.

Nicky winks at her. “You know you love us.”

Quýnh laughs, loud and happy – a startling sound after what she told them. Booker rolls his eyes at them.

“Sure do.” Andy is apparently ignoring them even as they stare at her, waiting for more. “Like I love a bullet to the head.”

Joe leans toward Nile and says conspiratorially, “And that's how you know she does love us.”

Nicky nods. “She uses much worse comparisons when we annoy her.”

Nile frowns, looking between them. There's something slightly... strange in the way they all interact. She can't figure out if it's the massive age difference or the immortal/mortal thing. “How long have you known each other?”

They exchange a single glance, just like Andy and Quýnh did before. “It's a long story.” Joe shrugs. “Perhaps we'd better save it for another day.”

There's something more there, and though she has already heard more than she honestly wished to, Nile can't bring herself to let it go. “Come on, you can't be much older than me.”

“I turned 30 in April,” Nicky says. “Joe will be 33 in July. You still haven't told me what you want to do for your birthday, love.”

She doesn't give Joe time to change the subject. “Where did they find you, in the Foreign Legion?” Sometimes they sound like Booker, other times they sound completely different from each other and she can't pin their accents down.

Another speaking look. Booker shifts in his seat. “In the Netherlands,” Nicky says eventually. “In '93.”

For a moment, she thinks she heard wrong. She must have. In 1993 they would have been _children._

Nicky sighs. He and Joe reach out at the same time and grasp each other's hand, intertwining their fingers without even looking. Next to her, Booker curses softly.

“Boys, you don't have to...” Quýnh says, but they both shake their heads.

Joe takes a deep breath and starts speaking slowly, softly. “When we were kids, we were... in a bad place.” He looks straight into her eyes. “If you want bad people, you should have seen those who had us then.”

“Not that there's much left of them,” Andy growls and if Nile still held any doubts about a warrior thousands of years old, her voice right then erases them all.

Nicky smiles at her, small and sweet. “We owe Booker, Andy and Quýnh everything. They saved us.” He squeezes Joe's hand. “Though Yusuf saved me first. I wouldn't have survived without him.”

Joe – Yusuf? turns to look at him with an expression that can only be described as pure adoration on his face, that should look ridiculous and somehow really, really doesn't. “You saved me too, _ya_ _amar._ Never forget that.”

“And then what?” Nile blurts out. “They just... kept you?”

Nicky snorts. “It was the other way around, actually. We refused to leave.”

Nile looks incredulously at them all. “And they what, raised you? Trained you?”

Both Nicky and Joe shrug like it's natural, like it's nothing. “Pretty much, yes,” Joe says.

“We only wanted you to be able to protect yourselves!” Booker protests. He masks it well, but there's still some genuine anger in his voice.

“In retrospect, we trained them a little too well...” Andy grumbles, but it sounds like a cross between an old argument and an inside joke.

Nile's mind is reeling. It feels like a wheel stuck in the mud, now completely unmoving, now spinning and spinning on itself, unable to find purchase and move on. She rubs her hands over her eyes and face, her shoulders slump.

“I think that's enough for tonight.” Booker intervenes. “Nile's probably exhausted, she'll want to get some rest.”

“Good idea, you do the washing up and I'll show her the bedroom,” Nicky says, already standing up. From Booker's expression, it's not the result he was going for, but she is too tired to care.

They don't have far to go, only in the next room: there's an old iron bed in a corner, an old mattress rolled up in the other and a couple of camp beds in between.

“Not much privacy, I'm afraid.” Nicky says apologetically as he gestures to the one on the right.

“It's fine,” Nile says, entirely automatically as she drops down on it. “Thank you for showing me. And for dinner.”

“You're welcome. Sorry about that, it was a lot to spring on you.”

“No, no, I asked.” She rubs a hand over her face again. “I just... I don't understand you. And Joe, I guess. I don't mean to offend you, it's just...” She trails off, unsure on how to phrase it.

“You think it's Stockholm syndrome?” His voice sounds perfectly collected, maybe even a bit amused, but she flinches anyway. “Or that it's like a cult? It's not. We chose this, both of us.”

“I guess I can't understand why you would. Or how you are not scared or...”

“Envious, since someday we'll die?” He shrugs. “As Quýnh said, there are worse things than dying.”

Nile presses her lips together. “Was it that easy for you? Leaving your family behind?”

“My family is all here.” He sits down on the cot next to hers, leaning his elbows on his knees. “My so-called mother died years ago, but I wouldn't have gone back to her even if I could.”

She frowns. “What about Joe?”

“He hasn't got a family beyond us, either.”

“You have to admit that sounds awfully convenient. You called him Yusuf before. Are Joe and Nicky even your real names?”

“I got the nickname back in school, now being Joe raises less eyebrows in Europe and America, especially after 9/11.” Nile startles and turns to the door – Joe is right there, leaning against the old-fashioned frame. “My parents died in a car crash when I was five.” He sighs and moves to the other cot, Nicky sliding down to leave him some room. “I think we'll have to tell her, Nico.”

“Not tonight, she has had enough.”

“She is right here,” Nile says tartly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just tell me.”

Nicky, or Nico, or whatever his name is, hesitates, wets his lips. “It's not a nice story. The beginning, at least.”

“I wasn't expecting one,” Nile replies, raising an eyebrow. “I'm a Marine. I can take it.”

Yusuf-Joe leans against Nicky-Nicholas-Nico's side, lays a comforting hand on his knee. Nicky-Nicholas-Nico wets his lips again. “My mother sold me for drug money when I was three years old.”

Nile's blood runs cold, her breath feels frozen in her lungs. She doesn't need to ask what kind of person would buy a child, because... there's really only one type. Two, maybe, she has heard rumors of illegal adoptions and less-than-ethical adoption agencies, but she would bet her phone that's not what he's talking about.

She watches as Joe gently squeezes his knee and Nicky covers his hand with his own.

She can't bring herself to ask. Joe answers her anyway. “I'm a rare case of stranger abduction, though officially I'm listed as a runaway. Well, I was, I'm a cold case now. Nico here was never even reported missing.”

“We met in Hell,” Nicky says. “But it got better. Booker came. He, Andy and Quýnh saved us.”

Nile has her own opinions on that – on what really saving them would have required – but she is too worn out to argue. “I'm sorry I brought it up.”

“Don't be,” Nicky immediately reassures her. “It was a long time ago.”

“Being able to tell the true story isn't bad, too.” Joe adds. He bumps his shoulder against Nicky's. “Lend me a hand, Quýnh and Andy want us to move their mattress in the other room.”

Nicky nods and stands. “Sorry, Nile. We'll let you rest now.”

Between the two of them, they get the mattress and blankets out, Nicky returning to close the door behind them.

Nile lays down on the camp bed. It's not the best place she has ever slept, but it's not the worst, either. Not for the first time, she considers calling her family. Not for the first time, her hand hovers over her pocket, fingers playing with the seam and never slipping in. There's just too much she doesn't know – if they have even been told she's gone, who else might be listening in, waiting for her call.

Nicky said he and Joe don't envy the others – or her, by extension. Funnily enough, she thinks she might envy them, Nicky who needs band-aids when he cuts himself and Joe whose bruises don't fade in a matter of minutes. Nicky and Joe who are normal.

Of course, if she were like Nicky and Joe, she'd be dead. She'd be on her way back home alright, inside a coffin.

Nile closes her eyes. It's too late and she is too tired for such heavy, complicated thoughts. In between the noise of the passing planes, other sounds drift in from the other room – low voices, running water and the clinks and clangs of the dishes, cutlery and pots being washed.

Somewhere, Nicky is humming the same song as before. He's no Frank Ocean and she still doesn't recognize the song, but she lets it lull her to sleep.

Somebody touches her shoulder and she jolts awake – Quýnh, a SIG-Sauer P226 in her hand and a finger on her lips. Behind her, she sees the other three moving, grabbing weapons.

“What?”

“Andromache heard something.” A plane flies overhead, shaking the whole church. Nile looks up and then back at her. Quýnh shakes her head and presses the gun into her hands. “Just a precaution.”

“Nicky, Joe, your armor?” Booker is saying as he sticks one more gun in the back of his pants.

“Almost done,” Joe says, he and Nicky strapping themselves in with quick, practiced movements. Joe reaches out and gives Nicky's vest a quick tug, more a reassurance than a real check.

Booker nods and steps into the other room, glances through one of the boarded up windows as Andy checks out the other. Another plane passes over them.

“Maybe it's just drunk teenagers?” Nile offers.

Andromache's shoulders are still tense, her hand clenched around a double headed axe. “Nile, Nicky Joe, stay back.”

She starts walking to the door, Quýnh on her right and Booker on her left, and then...

The door is kicked in. Something hits the ground and Booker shouts “Grenade!”, throwing himself on top of it faster than she thought possible. His whole body shakes with the force of the explosion like a puppet with the strings cut.

Nile dives for covers, or tries to – she feels a bullet hit her back, then another, another. Her bones break, her muscles tear, all around her is darkness, noise and a storm of bullets.

She grits her teeth and returns fire, but all she can see is brief sparkles of light illuminating a scene from Hell.

Andromache rushing the figures in black, her axe swinging.

Joe on the ground, his body twisting in pain as another bullet hits. Quýnh half lying on top of him, franctically trying to bind a torniquet around his leg and shield him with her body at the same time.

Booker blinking back to life, turning his head to look for Nicky and Joe.

Nicky half spinning and falling, a large wet patch on his vest.

Andromache on the ground, her body riddled with bullets, twitching and jerking and convulsing like a grotesque dance.

Just as suddenly as the shooting started, it stops. The sudden silence makes her ears ring. Somebody turns on the lights and Nile blinks quickly, trying to force her eyes to adjust faster. She looks around, the room where they spoke and ate only a few hours before in shambles.

Men in black – soldiers? Enemies with submachine guns and assault rifles are all over the room, covering them from every side – there's a cluster on the ground all around Andy, either unmoving or moaning in pain. Nile can't see her, there's four over her, binding her arms and legs while another two stand guard, ready to shoot at the smallest twich.

“Holy shit, look at that!”

“Is it...? Fuck, hurry!”

Nile turns her head.

She sees Joe across the room, completely still. She can't see his face because Quýnh is slumped on top of him and there's two of the bastards moving towards them so perhaps she will, after all.

Nicky is lying on his side, still bleeding, the fingers of his right hand twitching as he desperately tries to grab the gun that's just out of his reach.

Booker won't take his eyes off him, his voice a broken rattle. “Nicky Nicky Nicky non muoverti ti prego non muoverti Nicky...”

What did Andy say, on the plane? What's French for “play dead”, he must speak French, but she can't remember and it's Nicky, it won't do him any good. One minute, two at the most and he won't have to pretend at all...

One of the attackers is walking towards him and Booker tries to crawl on his arms, on his shredded belly, the pain not even registering. Nile tries to get up, too, but her legs won't obey her – there's a bullet stuck between two vertebrae, she can still feel it pushing out and she can't make it go faster, can't make herself move.

There are three men over Booker now, struggling to hold him down. The other man reaches Nicky, kicks the gun away from him and turns him on his back with his foot.

Nicky looks up at him and snarls. His teeth are red.

The man just stands over him, unmoving, watching him over his Glock 17. Then he moves back, pulls the trigger and shoots Nicky in the head.

Booker _howls_. The three men on him go flying, he's on his feet and halfway across the room before they can react, his chest and belly still torn open. Bullets start flying again, hitting him, but he doesn't _stop_ , not until the bastard who shot Nicky manages to raise his gun and shoot him in the head twice.

Nile swears he takes one more step before he falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nicky's song:** [here](https://morvith.tumblr.com/post/639602166205743104/hej-sokoly-polish-ukrainian-version) (You will hear it again)
> 
>  **Quýnh's age:** I totally screwed up Quýnh's age in the first version of this chapter, so I went back and did more research. The Hùng kings were the ancient rulers of Vietnam, starting from the 26th century BCE. The Ðoài line was the 8th dynasty of Hung kings and came into power around 1431 BCE – I arbitrarily picked 1446 BCE as Quynh's year of birth.  
> All my research was done on Wikipedia, so take that as you will. If historians or Vietnamese readers find issues with what I wrote, please let me know and I will correct it. 
> 
> Speaking of ages, yes, Kid!Nicky really asked Andy if she had ever ridden a dinosaur. Blame _The Flintstones_
> 
>  **Ya amar** : my moon
> 
>  **Nicky Nicky Nicky non muoverti ti prego non muoverti Nicky...** : Nicky Nicky Nicky don't move please don't move Nicky


	2. Chapter 2

ROTTERDAM, 1993

Some jobs can be both hateful and extremely satisfying. Like this one.

Sébastien is more than ready to get to the satisfying part, where Filip Bakker gets arrested or, better yet, he gets to put a bullet in his head. No, make it his stomach, just so the bastard can die slowly and painfully.

The most proper way for him to go, Sébastien daydreams, would be to be crushed like the spider he is, maybe under one of his containers. Perhaps he will ask Andromache if it can be arranged, it's the least she owes him for this infiltration.

The problem is that Filip has...very specific tastes, and in order to get close to him, to get him to trust him, Sébastien has had to pretend to share them. Others in the organization tease him for what they call his fastidiousness and his obsession with cleanliness, but some days he feels there's not enough water in the world to make him feel clean.

“You've done great, Werner.” Filip says, grinning, and amicably slaps his shoulder. What Sébastien wouldn't do to cut that hand off at the wrist.

Instead, he ducks his head and rubs his neck. “Thanks, Fil. Just doing my best.”

“Your best is pretty incredible.” He's still grinning. “All your hard work deserves a reward. That's why I asked you to come here, I have a special treat for you.”

Sébastien raises his eyebrows. Filip stands up from the table. “I want to show you my private collection. I'm sure you'll appreciate it.”

Sébastien forces himself to smile as he follows him to a locked door that opens on a flight of stairs to the cellar. There's another door at the bottom, also locked. Sébastien holds back a sigh and only half listens to Filip's chatter as he fumbles with the keys, mentally steeling himself for pictures or maybe tapes. Hopefully he'll just want to show off how many he has without offering Sébastien a “sample.”

Once the door opens, the cellar beyond looks absolutely ordinary, filled with all the odd bits and ends that don't quite have a place above: cardboard boxes still packed, old schoolbooks, Christmas decorations, an old bike... He expects Filip to head for one of the cardboard boxes, instead he locks the door behind them.

Sébastien doesn't have to pretend be startled, but Filip only winks at him. “I must be careful. You'll see.”

Before he can ask what exactly he's supposed to see, Filip leads him across the room to another door in the corner, half-hidden between the shelves. This one has a lock, a padlock and a deadbolt.

It's the deadbolt that sends alarm bells ringing in his head, but before he can quite follow the thought to its logical conclusion, Filip unlocks the door, opens it barely a third of the way and hurriedly pushes him in before following him and locking up behind them.

“Well? What do you think?” He asks, beaming.

Sébastien thinks he wishes Andromache were here, or at least her axe. He thinks that he wasn't prepared for this, that nothing in the world could have perpared him for this.

His mind vaguely registers some details – the corner with a toilet and a dripping tap over a plastic tub, ratty towels, a pile of folded clothes, the bottles of water, the bare lightbulb that was already on – but all he can really see is the single bed and the two children, two little boys sitting on it side by side, holding hands so tightly their small, short nails are digging into their skin.

The oldest has a mop of dark curls, olive skin even though they clearly haven't seen the sun in a long time – six or seven years old, no more, perhaps North African or Middle Eastern origins. The younger looks too thin, scrawny – he's under five years old, Sébastien would bet his first edition Don Quixote.

Filip is still talking about what a prize they are, not quite tame yet and he must be careful, there will be rules. Sébastien hears him but doesn't listen. In one step he's in front of the bed, in front of them, crouching down to their height. He spent his whole life, immortal and not, mostly trying to make himself look smaller than he actually is, non-treathening, and never before he has so fervently hoped to succeed.

Brown eyes and grey eyes converge on him, scrutinize him, flat and hard but not empty, not dead. He feels a tiny, fragile flicker of hope push through the horror.

“Hallo,” he says softly.

No answer, not that he was expecting one. What he was expecting, what he was watching for is the flicker of understanding, the lightning quick glances between them. So they speak Dutch. Good.

“What are your names? Can you tell me your names?” The language is all wrong, but his voice, it's the same voice he used when his own children were small and scared.

Silence again, but only for a moment because the younger boy suddenly replies in a low, scratchy voice even as the older one frantically squeezes his hand. “Nicolò.”

The older boy can't quite hold back a frustrated sigh that turns into a cough. “Yusuf.”

“Nicolò and Yusuf. Thank you. Are you going to be good for me?” He hates saying it, he knows they must have heard that sentence before and what it means for them, but he needs them to obey because there's really only one way this will end.

Yusuf's shoulders stiffen, he immediately pulls Nicolò closer, but Nicolò keeps staring at him without blinking, like he's looking straight into his soul. “Yes,” he says.

Yusuf glares at him, but nods.

“I want you to close your eyes and cover your ears. Can you do that?”

They have no reason to listen to him, no reason to trust him but, miraculously, they do, Nicolò first, Yusuf maybe half a second after him.

He's on his feet and moving before Filip sees them, before he realizes he's coming – Sébastien is big, he may deliberately try to look smaller, slower, but he has always been fast and he's even faster now, after a century and a half under Andromache and Quýnh's tutelage. His fist catches him in the face, slams him back against the wall, then Sébastien is on him, hitting him with all his strength.

That's where he fucks up. Instead of making it quick, he loses himself in his fury and keeps punching him over and over again, until Filip manages to pull a switchblade from his pocket and stabs him in the neck. It's the last thing he does: Sébastien breaks his neck as soon as he feels the blade cut through his skin, but the damage is done. He staggers backwards, trying to hold on to the wall with one hand and stem the flow of blood with the other, but all he manages to do is fall sideways, his vision already going grey around the edges.

The last thing he sees before he dies is Yusuf protectively curled around Nicolò, his hands covering Nicolò's over his ears. His eyes are wide open, staring at him.

_That was the beginning, but there was more, so much more... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hallo:** Hello in Dutch. 
> 
> I realized I screwed up Quynh's age in the previous chapter, so I went back and did some changes - nothing major, just adjusted the numbers and the historical references.
> 
> This is not the chapter you were waiting for, but it wanted to be written and it wanted to be here: I hope you liked it anyway


	3. Chapter 3

They kill all the guards in the van.

Rather, Quýnh does and he assists when she needs it. If she needs it.

It won't bring the boys back.

It doesn't erase the haunted, terrified look from her eyes, either, the kind of look that slices right through him all the way to his heart. His wounds healed but he still feels torn open, raw.

He wants to tell her to get out and leave him here, let him get to the bottom of this, but his voice won't work, his tongue feels heavy in his mouth like a stone.

The van rolls to a stop before he can find the words, before they can free themselves properly.

Any hope they had that Andromache would free herself and Nile is dashed almost immediately. The bodies that tumble out of the second van look worse than theirs – more broken, bloodier.

Andromache the Scythian has forgotten more ways to kill than entire armies will ever learn, she doesn't have to make it this bloody unless she wants to – _Quýnh teasing her about mellowing out in her old age, Andy flipping her off in response, Joe's soft laugh and Nicky's quiet snort_ – and she must have wanted to. She's still incandescent with rage when they drag her out, she and Quýnh both burning like stars, like forest fires.

Sébastien understands it in a distant, muted way. At some point he too will reach murderous rage, but not yet, not yet.

Two men in civilian clothes stare at them in disbelief.

“Get 'em on the plane, now!” One of them shouts, aiming a Glock 17 at them, and the guards hurry to obey him. He's wearing a dark jacket, not the black uniform of the field operatives: he didn't shoot Joe and Nicky, but he sent the men who did. Even buried deep under the fog of grief, Sébastien will remember his face.

The other man, in a light-colured jacket, frowns. “Where are the other two?”

“Dead. They were nothing special, you said so yourself.”

The second man recoils. “That wasn't what we agreed on!”

Quýnh spits at them, curses them in Vietnamese – real curses, not just calling them names. It's a pity they can't appreciate it.

The man in the light jacket looks and sounds somewhat familiar, but right now Sébastien is more interested in their next ride: a private plane with “Merrick” painted in white square letters on the black backround above a light blue band. He knows that name, that logo – _Nicky_ _showing him an article on his phone about a new treatment for cancer, smiling. “Some days there are good news, too.”_

Andromache plants her feet on the ground and refuses to be moved, staring at the man in the light jacket. “Copley.”

He knows that name, too. CIA agent, quit when his wife got ill, working as a freelancer now. They looked into him after spending seven months dodging his calls – Nicky and Joe had offered to meet him, be their shield, but he, Andromache and Quýnh vetoed it.

Copley stopped trying around... February.

There's something there, a connection his brain is desperately trying to make but he can't, not now, because Nicky will never smile again and Yusuf will never laugh again, his sketch of Nile's face will never be finished and Hej Sokoły – “ _I can't help it, it's stuck in my head.” “Yes, habibi, but do you have to get it stuck in ours, too?”_ – is the last song Nicky ever sang, he'll never hear their voices again or walk in on them kissing or see them reach out and grasp each other's hand...

Their loss, the full reality of it hit him all at once and it feels like being caught in a landslide, like having a whole building collapse on top of him. His knees buckle under the weight, but he forces himself to remain upright. He will not give them the satisfaction of his pain, his heartbreak.

He lets them push him up the ladder and down into a seat. Private planes aren't really meant to transport prisoners, but they try to keep them as far apart as possible.

Nile ends up somewhere behind him. Andromache and Quýnh try to catch his eye, but he ignores them. They don't need him, they've never needed him – “ _look at them, they need us! What am I supposed to do? Leave them by the side of the road and hope for the best?”_ – he'll fall in with whatever they decide, but not now, not now.

Now all he can do is sink into his memories – all his memories, from the beginning. From the moment he opened his eyes again on the concrete floor of that cellar.

Twenty-six years worth of memories. He never expected to have so many: it was supposed to be temporary, first until they got better – _a scene without words: waking up in the night to make sure the boys were still breathing and finding Andromache or Quýnh bending over their bed, one hand checking Yusuf's forehead or Nicky's and eyes fixed on the rise and fall of the blankets_ – then until they found their relatives, well, decent relatives, but Nicolò's nonna was dead, the woman who birthed him was only fit to be hanged – “ _and believe me, Quýnh, I of all people do not say that lightly!”_ – Yusuf's grandparents were either dead or too frail, his uncle had quarreled with his father and when Andromache and Quýnh hinted at what Yusuf had been through... Well, the surviving Mr. Al-Kaysani had not been an option.

Social services had been considered – they didn't _look_ like the orphanages and poorhouses he remembered, but how could they trust them when they had lost Yusuf in the first place? When they hadn't even realized he had been kidnapped and really, did they think a six-year-old boy who spoke primarily Arabic could just vanish into thin air on his own?

They hadn't reckoned with the boys themselves, too – _Nico must stay with me. Want Yusuf. Why can't we stay with you? Why? You can't die. You won't leave us. I don't wanna go. I'm scared. Why can't we stay?_

It hadn't been easy, none of it, starting from the decision itself.

He remembers sitting around the kitchen table in the safehouse near Köln, all avoiding each other's eyes, talking softly in Vietnamese as Yusuf and Nicolò slept, only nominally in separate beds since they always found them together in the morning.

_Are we doing this? Are we really doing this? We must all agree. Once we start, we can't go back, it must be until they are of age, until they can take care of themselves. Fourteen years at least. Can we do it? Can we risk it?_

_They might hate us in the end. One day we will lose them and it will hurt, even worse than now. Can we do it?_

The boys' insistance on staying together had struck a chord with Andy and Quýnh, but it was his vote that carried the day.

He had been of two minds the whole time – how could they take care of children? How could they set themselves up for heartbreak again? Was he betraying his own sons, his real family?

In the end, though, he couldn't bring himself to leave them, not when he saw them back in that damp cellar every time he closed his eyes... Yes, he knew it was statistically unlikely to happen, but logic did absolutely nothing to soothe his fears.

Perhaps it had been madness, after all: going back into the world, deciding where to live, how to raise them, dealing with doctors and schools and churches and mosques during the boys' religious phase...

Even establishing identities had been a headache and a half: Yusuf didn't want to change his name, so he ended up as Andromache's son, or rather Anne-Marie Martin's. They hadn't wanted to completely erase his grief, so her husband Ibrahim Al-Kaysani had sadly died in a car crash. Nicolò didn't know his own surname – officially he bore his mother's, but they privately agreed all ties to That Woman were better severed and forgotten – and they had ended up calling him DiGenova, after the city of his birth.

He could have been Sébastien DiGenova, too, but he refused to be his father on paper, even if it complicated things. In the end, Nicolò became his nephew, the son of his entirely fictional sister Christine Dubois who had recently remarried and whose new husband did not care for his stepson. He had been Jean Sébastien Dubois, technical manuals writer with a passion for history and literature.

The boys had grown up between the South of France, Italy and Tunisia, with frequent “camping trips” in Europe, Northern Africa and even Asia. They spoke French, Italian and Arabic like native speakers, switching between languages and mixing them in what became their own personal dialect. What little Dutch they had, they forgot.

He got so much from those years. Some memories are happy..

_Yusuf and Nicolò kicking around a ball in the playground, smiling._

_Yusuf and Nicolò chasing each other, climbing trees, swimming, laughing..._

_Yusuf peeking into the bedroom next door.“Tante Andy, tante Quýnh, I had a nightmare, can we sleep in your bed?”_

“ _Can we have hot chocolate for breakfast? Can we? Please?”_

_Toy shops. Just...toy shops. It was hard to say who found them more exciting, the boys or their guardians._

_A recovered photograph: baby Yusuf with his parents. The look on Yusuf's face when they give it to him._

_Yusuf and Nicolò curled up against him on the sofa, asleep halfway though the movie. Quýnh laughing quietly._

_Joe shaking his head, grinning as Nicky lost a bet. “I don't know why he bothers, we'll never win anything: we both used up our lifetime's allotment of luck the day you found us.”_

“ _...We were the lucky ones, kid.”_

_The “Let's Find Something That Scares Andy” prank campaign (1996 – 2002, unsuccessful)_

_Joe and Nicky buying baby wipes in bulk, slipping fresh packages in their kits and carrying one extra in their own in case he or Andy or Quýnh had to clean suspicious amounts of blood off of themselves in a hurry. Always the unscented brand Andy preferred._

“ _I know you said no photos, so I drew you. Do you like it?”_

“ _Booker, Andy, Quýnh, look!”_

“ _Settle down, you two, or no story!”_

“ _Nooo!”_

“ _Please, uncle Booker!”_

“ _All right, all right, get in bed, both of you. We're starting a new book tonight, are you ready?”_

“ _Can we have one of your stories, too? Please?”_

“ _...Maybe later, if you're still awake. Now, let's begin: Around the World in Eighty Days, by Jules Verne. Chapter one, in which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout...”_

_(They were still awake later and he ended up caving about the story)_

_The first time they don't flinch or go unnaturally still when he goes near them. The first time Nicolò hugs him, throwing his arms around his waist and squeezing tightly. The first time Yusuf hugs him, quick and hard, and accidentally headbutts him in the stomach._

...other memories aren't as happy, but are trasured in retrospect because it's over...

_Arguments to get them_ _**into** _ _the bathtub. Arguments to get them_ _**out** _ _of the bathtub. Yusuf submitting stoically to having his hair dried. Nicolò running all around the room – a blessing on whoever invented extension cords._

_Midnight pharmacy runs, Andromache quietly panicking over cough syrups._

_Quýnh's Opinions on children's clothes. “Pink is for girls? Since when?!”_

“ _That's not a lullaby, Andy, that's a Russian war song!”_

“ _Ugh, fine! Our 'prentice Tom may now refuse/To wipe his scoundrel Master's Shoes,/For now he's free to sing and play/Over the Hills and far away...”_

“ _Andromache!”_

_Days, years spent training them: practicing punches and kicks over and over, showing them where to hit in order to bring down a grown man, how to run and hide and evade pursuit, what to do if their opponent had a weapon and how to use it if they got it away from them... Joe and Nicky soaking it all up like little sponges, always coming back for more._

“ _Andromache, they won't heal if they break their neck!”_

“ _I know what I'm doing, Booker! They won't learn any younger.”_

“ _You want to put them on a wild animal that weighs half a ton, bites on one end, kicks on the other and I shouldn't worry?!”_

“ _Madame Martin, Monsieur Dubois, we have called you here because your children taught their classmates a most unsuitable version of Ça ira...”_

...some memories will only ever be sad...

“ _Yusuf! Yusuf, look! The sun!” Nicolò whispers excitedly, and Yusuf struggles to open his eyes. “Oh! It's beautiful!”_

_It's only a pallid, wintry sun, barely struggling through the clouds, and the boys are still too ill to get out of bed, never mind go outside and enjoy it, yet they stare at the window in awe until exhaustion claims them again._

_They don't notice the look on Quýnh's face, or that she practically runs out of the room._

_Nicolò's tiny fists beating against his leg. “Where's Yusuf, what did you do to him?!” Then the bathroom door opening and Yusuf rushing out “Nico, Nico, I'm here, I'm sorry, I was hungry, I'm sorry Nico...” The younger boy throwing his arms around him, sobbing. “You left! You left! You weren't there!”_

_Yusuf's purple face as he shouts, struggling against Andy's embrace. “You are liars! All grown-up are liars! You want to leave us, you'll go away and never come back, like m-mama and baba!” A tear falls, than another, and another, until they are a torrent, a rainstorm, and every sobs shakes his body like thunder._

_Andy pulls him close and lets him cry, whispering gently, “We are here, little one. We'll never leave you, I promise.”_

_Quýnh kneeling down next to them, rubbing soothing circles on his thin shoulder. “Death can't keep us and the ocean itself couldn't part me from my Andromache. What force on Earth could stand between us and our boys?”_

_The boys standing in front of the washing machine at two in the morning with a pile of sheets and blankets, both defiantly proclaiming to have been the one who wet the bed and who should be punished, even if Yusuf's pajama pants were dry and Nicolò's were...not._

“ _I miss my mama and baba.”_

_The one photograph of Nicolò from Before they can find was taken at the parish church Easter picnic: he and his nonna are off to the side, Nicolò's face all blurry and out of focus because he turned around just at the wrong moment. He goes and looks at it sometimes, stares at his nonna's face. “I don't really remember her any more.”_

“ _If you are ever captured, we'll come for you. I promise you, we'll do whatever it takes to get you back. However... It might take time and you might not have it.” Quýnh takes a deep breath. “You'll have to judge for yourselves. I want you to remember this always, hold on for as long as you can, but...if it gets too much, remember you have a way out.”_

_Sixteen years later and they have the same hard look in their eyes. “We promise.”_

“ _There are worse things than dying,” Joe whispers, his hand clasped around Nicky's._

...some memories will only ever be bitter...

“ _Monsieur Dubois, Nicolas punched Julien in the face...”_

“ _He called Joe a dirty towelhead!”_

“ _Okay, one, his name is Nicolò, and two, that was well done.”_

“ _Monsieur Dubois!”_

“ _Weren't you supposed to go watch the new Lord of the Rings film with your friends?”_

“ _They're not my friends.”_

“ _What happened? Did you have a fight?”_

“ _...”_

“ _Yusuf...”_

“ _...they said they don't want me to bring Nicky. If he can't go, I'm not going, either.”_

“ _Yusuf, Nicky is 13. Perhaps you should...”_

“ _No. I won't. Nicky's worth ten of them anyway.”_

“ _He's a bright boy, he could do so much better if only he applied himself...” Over and over again from their teachers, which never made any sense because the boys **were** bright and they did love learning, they were always asking them questions and to show them things._

...and of course, the worst ones until now. The memories he hates, the ones he never thinks about if he can help it.

_The first time he walks in on Nicky and Joe kissing, right there in the middle of the kitchen – Joe with his left arm around Nicky's waist and his right hand buried in his hair, Nicky's arms around his neck. A lovers' kiss, a lovers' embrace, comfortable and unhurried and familiar._

_A quarter of hour later, the boys sitting at that same table, holding hands._

“ _Yusuf is the love of my life.”_

“ _And Nicolò is the love of mine. No, he's more than that, he's...”_

“ _You are 17! And you're 20! You are children! What do you know about love?! You have barely lived at all! You...”_

“ _What, should we wait until we're your age? Your **real** age?”_

“ _Just because we won't live as long as you...”_

_Quýnh's chair scraping against the tiles. “Excuse us, boys, we're taking Booker outside to get some air before you three say something you'll regret.”_

_Andromache's iron grip on his arm. The door slamming shut behind them. His mind full of the Westermarck effect and codependency, Nicky and Joe dropping therapy a few months before and the way they never asked to spend the summer with their friends, only for more training._

“ _That can't be right. We must have fucked up somewhere, they weren't supposed to...”_

“ _Booker, are you seriously telling me you didn't see it coming?”_

“ _Because you did? Wait, you **did**?! How? When?”_

“ _Nicky has been in love with Joe since he was 15. Joe...it's actually hard to say. Being the eldest, he worried. I think it was around the same time, too, but he wouldn't let himself look too closely. As for how...well, the usual way, I guess.”_

He still remembers the entire fight, when Quýnh and Andy demolished all his arguments and mercilessly uncovered the real source of his unease.

  
_“I know you want to give them everything you couldn't give your sons: a normal life, an education, a wife, a family... But, Booker, they don't want it. Isn't it enough that they are happy?”_

“ _Of course it is, it's just... they are too young.”_

“ _Remind me again, how old were you when you married Suzanne?”_

“ _...I was 20, but that was different!”_

“ _Because you got married in August and your daughter was born in December, we know. Good news, Nicky's not pregnant!And neither is Joe!”_

_Andromache laughs so hard she cries._

He apologized to them, but things were awkward for a while.

The next April Nicky turned 18. He was preparing himself to say goodbye, waiting for the moment their immortality would no longer be a wonder but a curse, a source of fear and anger, instead Nicky and Joe started their “We Want To Join You” campaign.

_Joe and Nicky sitting side by side on the sofa, their shoulders bumping together.“We can help. You trained us, you know we can. We can be your shield, make sure nobody notices your gift.”_

“ _Our place is with you. It has always been.”_

At least this time Andromache and Quýnh were on his side, though the boys had been relentless. Napoleon could have learned a thing or two from them.

Again, he had been the lone hold-out. Perhaps, if he hadn't reacted so badly when he found out about them, if he hadn't still felt guilty over it, he would have managed to hold out longer. Perhaps he wouldn't have given in at all.

But he had. He, Andromache and Quýnh agreed to bring them along on some missions – nothing too dangerous, just enough to give them a taste of what their lives were really like, to knock some of the idealism out of them.

_A warning from Andromache:“Don't think you'll change the world.”_

“ _Why not? You changed ours.” Nicky, devastatingly._

“ _You **gave** us the world.” Joe, quietly._

A total, spectacular failure. It hadn't worked, at all. Training them harder, trying to set them up in other roles, with humanitarian organizations, none of it worked. He had even been tempted to try and go off the grid, disappear, but Andromache and Quýnh would have never agreed and he couldn't do it to his boys, he couldn't let them come home to an empty house and a letter of excuses.

He had to admit, too, that the boys were never reckless, never hasty or irresponsible: even with three immortals ready to put themselves between them and any danger, they had never taken them or their ability for granted. The same care and consideration they had for each other, they extended to the whole team as easily as breathing.

They were always ready to run interference or distract potential witnesses.

“ _Face it, you're stuck with us.”_

“ _Hey, it's not like it's forever.” Silence, and he can only imagine the look on his own face, if he looks half as devastated as Andy's or Quýnh's. “I shouldn't have said that, sorry. But it's true. Let's not waste the time we have.”_

In the back of his mind, he always knew: he found them together, he would lose them together. Not like this, though, it was never supposed to end like this, they were supposed to walk away or, failing that, pass in their sleep in their nineties, surrounded by adopted children and grandchildren...

“ _You've seen them, Booker. They'll do it with or without us and at this point it's better with us. We'll protect them. We'll see them to the other side.”_

He never confessed it to anyone, but for all his protests, part of him had also been happy. Relieved.

It was only supposed to be fourteen years, they got almost twice as much. Fourteen years, twenty-six years, what are they to centuries, millenia?

(All. They were all and more.)

He should have known better. No, he should have _been_ better.

He failed them. Again. Worse than Jacques, Henri and Jean-Pierre, perhaps.

All his children from his first life had funerals, Christian burials. At the time it had not been a comfort, even the services for those who died before he did for the first time, when he had no reason to think he wouldn't join them one day. He hadn't realized then that there were worse things. There are always worse things.

What will they do to Joe and Nicky? Will they burn them? Will they leave them there to rot? At least move them down to the crypt? But they won't lay them down together, the way they should be – embracing for all eternity, like the lovers of Valdaro, of Alepotrypa.

The thought won't leave him alone, it torments him through the landing and another journey in a van, to one of those tall buildings all glass and steel Andromache can't stand.

They are brought up to some sort of office before some... long-faced infant who greets them unctuously and introduces himself as Steven Merrick. The backer of the whole operation, presumably, with a neat little speech prepared.

He isn't really listening, but two things catch his attention anyway. The first is the mention of a video Copley showed him – they didn't really need Merrick to tell them that Copley found them out, sold them out but now the final piece clicks into place and he knows exactly when, where and how. “ _It's Friday and South Africa is the drunk driving capital of the world. What are you looking at, Nicky?”_

“ _I thought I saw something moving...probably just a bird”_

The second is a word, a single word: _profit_ and suddenly he's angry, furious, he has never been so angry in his whole life. That's why Nicky and Joe died? For fucking profit? Not just money, money he could have understood, he could have accepted that. Eventually.

Profit. For the shareholders and Mr. Youngest CEO In Pharma, a man who _**isn't worth the mud on Joe's and Nicky's boots...**_

“Vous avez tué mes fils.”

The words are out in the open, spoken before he even finishes thinking them.

All he gets are blank looks of incomprehension, tinged with petulant annoyance in Merrick's case. Of course les goddams would not understand.

He raises his head, looks straight at them. Merrick steps backwards, almost stumbles in his haste.

“You killed my sons.” He repeats slowly, in English so they'll understand. Copley, trying to hide on the side, flinches – _he flinches_ , the bastard. Like he cares. Like he didn't mean to have his boys' blood on his hands and what exactly did he think would happen?

He doesn't tell them they are all dead. He doesn't shout, doesn't curse them, doesn't utter a single threat. Just watches them.

Merrick tries to recover, talks about helping every human being on Earth and moral obligation.

If Joe were here, he'd laugh at him for comparing them to mice. If Nicky were here, he'd tell them to go read a history book and a few on ethics while they are at it.

Nicky and Joe are not here, Nicky and Joe are nowhere now, only in his memories – and Andromache's and Quýnh's, too, he knows they loved them, he knows they are suffering too, but his own pain is too heavy, he cannot carry theirs. There's nothing left of them save two cold bodies, if even that, and twenty-six years worth of photographs.

He keeps his eyes open through the cracking tasers, through the injection. Staring.

Copley. Merrick. Keane. They are only the first on the list. He doesn't know in what order he'll get them or how, but he will get them, all of them.

“ _To be a great forger, mes poulets, one must be patient and thorough, have an eye for details. Working quickly is important, too, but the real master must work quickly and well and it cannot be done without first having learned, patiently and thoroughly.”_

_Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!_

_Les aristocrates à la lanterne,_

_Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!_

_Les aristocrates on les pendra_

_Si on n' les pend pas_

_On les rompra_

_Si on n' les rompt pas_

_On les brûlera._

_Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira..._

The beloved voices fade, both the older ones and the new, and he wakes up strapped to an examination table, hooked to monitors. Unsurprisingly.

The blonde doctor keeps working. Somewhere beyond, he catches bits and pieces of a conversation between Merrick and Copley.

He turns away. Quýnh, Andromache and Nile are on his left, strapped to tables of their own, still and unmoving. The doctor is busy with him, so she misses the moment Quýnh and Andromache wake, though she probably would have missed it anyway: after the witch trials they became very, very good at playing dead.

Nile still doesn't move – poor girl, what an introduction to her new life.

“Do you feel the wound trying to close?” Asks the doctor – Kozak according to her badge, hello Name Number Four, though he'll gladly leave her to Andromache and Quýnh. Nile might want a piece of her, too.

He doesn't answer her, lets his eyes wander over the impressive array of samples she has already collected.

“Huh! Remarkable.”

It's all he can do not to laugh in her face. “So that's what you are after? Immortality?”

Doctor Kozak doesn't seem surprised by his question. “Is this where you try to warn me off? Tell me I should not meddle in things a mere mortal can't understand?”

  
He turns his head, looks up at her. “Au countraire, I wish you every success. I hope you'll get the secret of our immortality to your boss and get to use it yourself.”

She blinks, but quickly recovers her composure. When she speaks again, she sounds vaguely amused. “So I can live long enough to regret it?”

He smiles. “So I can spend the rest of my life killing you over and over again. Once wouldn't be enough.”

She flinches back, all traces of amusement vanish from her face, then she turns away from them, ostensibly to secure the last batch of samples. There's still a certain hurry in her movements when she steps outside, probably telling herself she is not scared.

Quýnh opens her eyes, breathing in through her nose and out of her mouth. Andromache raises her head to check on them both, then Nile wakes up thrashing.

“Nile, stop! You're hurting yourself!”

“Booker, help Quýnh. Nile, look at me. Look at me, breathe like I do...”

He immediately switches to Vietnamese, reassuring his older sister that she's not alone, right now it's just them, he and Andromache are here with her. He asks if he can start counting to ten and gets a tiny nod in response. 

At five, Quýnh's breathing evens out. At eight, she opens her eyes and smiles tremulously at him. “I'm here, Booker.”  
He smiles back. On the other side of her, Nile has stopped struggling. She just lies there staring at Andromache, her eyes shining with unshed tears.  
“I promise you, Nile: whatever it takes, you won't spend the rest of your life here.”

She nods slowly. “Wish we had gotten super strength along with super healing.”

“Oh, that would have been nice,” Quýnh sighs, feeling herself enough she can manage English for her new sister's sake.

“We'll manage.” Andromache says. “Booker better stop warning them, though.”

“Sorry, boss.”

“No, you're not. But I can't blame you.” Her voice is unbearably soft. It still hurts, acknowledging it out loud for the first time, it hurts so much he almost lashes out at her, but his rage ebbs instead of rising again.

It's not that she didn't love them as much as he did, it's just that... Andromache had had to live alone among mortals for longer than all of them have been alive, even including Lykon. This is not the first time she loses her family, or the second. It doesn't make her current grief any less real, any less deep, but she knows how to keep herself moving in spite of it, how to grit her teeth and go on. He has't learned yet. He isn't sure he ever will, no matter how long he lives.

Case in point. “I mean it, though, stop: I was about to headbutt Merrick before you scared him away.”

“Ah. Now I am truly sorry.”

Nile manages a tired chuckle. “I wish you had.”

“We can use it, though.” Quýnh says, switching to Vietnamese again. “Get them to focus on Booker...”

“And underestimate us?” Andromache finishes in English, again for Nile's benefit. “It could work.”

Nile frowns. “Hate to rain on your parade, but there's no underestimating _you_ , Andy.”

“I do vote against waiting until they become immortal.” Quýnh sounds almost regretful.

“Me too. Sorry, Booker.”

“Do I get a vote?” Nile asks. “Because I'm with Quýnh.”

“Noted,” he says. “Unnecessary, though. I don't expect they will, even if they worked at it for a thousand years.” He can't help the mournful sigh that escapes him. “A pity, really. I have so many ideas, I can hardly pick one.”

“You're not the only one, Booker,” Andromache says, her voice a low growl. “But once will have to be enough.”

He nods. “I know.”

The doctor comes back and all conversation ceases.

It's a long day. He and Andromache manage to keep Quýnh from two other panic attacks, and the three of them try to distract Nile when Kozak starts working on her.

They get breaks whenever Kozak needs one herself: the first time she leaves, Nile tentatively offers her condolences for Joe and Nicky.

“They were good people,” she whispers carefully, as though afraid to step on a mine.

“They were,” he chokes out through the unbearable lump in his throat. “The best.”

He should tell her that they had been so happy to meet her, so worried about her, that there's so much she'll miss out. Merrick and Copley stole from her, too, but words fail him again. Instead, he talks about all the deaths he would have Merrick, Copley, Keane and Doctor Kozak try for themselves if they were immortal. His first idea is hanging them the old-fashioned way: aside from Keane, who has muscles on his side, they don't look particularly heavy, so it should take a while. He could leave them there for days, like it was for him.

“What, no freezing to death?” Andromache asks. “After all the moaning and groaning we get about the cold?”

“ _Joe, where's your jacket? Go put an undershirt on, Nicky.” “Aww, uncle, it's 25° outside!” “It's not even windy!”_

“Too difficult to arrange. What would you recommend, Andromache? Setting them on fire?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Throw them into the sea,” Quýnh unexpectedly offers with a smile that's all teeth. “But make their coffin out of concrete.”

  
He nods. “Remember the U-boot base in Saint-Nazaire? We'll use so much concrete it will look like a sandcastle.”

After a while, Nile offers a couple of suggestions, too. They count it as a win, though it doesn't last for long.

It's a long, long day. Eventually, as all things must do, it ends. Kozak leaves, presumably to have dinner and report to Merrick – Quýnh starts a round of bets on the exact order.

He doesn't take it.

“Booker? Booker, talk to me,” Andromache whispers.

He should. They should know and he doesn't know what will happen next, if they'll be kept here or separated. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“What are you talking about?” He can feel Quýnh's eyes, though he can't bring himself to turn his head and meet them. He keeps staring at the ceiling as it grows more blurred.

“This. Joe and Nicky. It's all my fault.”

“What do you mean?” Nile's voice, unexpected, with a hard edge and oh, fuck, she doesn't know. He'll have to explain everything.

“Remember the video Merrick mentioned? I think it was me. Copley tried calling us for months, he stopped in February. In March Nicky, Joe and I were in Port Elizabeth. There was an accident.”

“What accident?” Andromache asks, her voice as sharp as her axe.

“I was run over by a car.” He stops, swallows hard, but there's still a lump in his throat. “We thought it was just an accident. It's South Africa, the fucking drunk driving capital of the world.” Joe told him as he recovered, trying to cheer him up. Nicky looking up, toward the roofs and the dark sky. Most people forget to look up, but not Nicky, not their sniper. “The boys brought me into an alley, but there must have been a drone.”

Andromache sits up as much as her restraints allow.“Why didn't we know? Why didn't you tell us?”

“We thought it was just an accident. Bad luck. You hadn't joined us yet, you were on honeymoon.” His voice stumbles on the last word – another one of Joe and Nicky's little jokes and there are too many to list, too many to count. They'll keep stumbling on them for years, maybe centuries. It's both awe-inspiring and frightening how completely they filled every aspect of their lives in such a short time.

They were ivy and mint, growing unchecked in every corner of their hearts, sinking their roots wide and deep.

This time it doesn't feel like a landslide or a collapsing building, this time it's a rising tide, a flooding river that fills him and fills him until there's nothing else left. He is tired, too tired to keep figthing it. He closes his eyes, tears spilling slowly down his cheeks.

“You were right. You were always right. I should have let them go. They'd still be alive if I had let them go.”

There's a soft thud as Andromache drops back against the table. “It's not all on you, Booker.” She sounds tired, like she can feel every single one of her six thousand years. “Remember what I said? 'They are not like us, they can't do it forever. How much time can they have? Fifteen, twenty years? We can keep them safe for twenty years.' I was so stupid, so arrogant, and they paid the price.”

Nile clears her throat. “For what's worth, Nicky told me they chose this. You. I...I don't think they regretted it.”

There's nothing he can say to that. Maybe someday he'll believe it. Maybe someday it will be a consolation, but not now, not now.

For a while, none of them speak. Quýnh, Andromache and Nile trade ideas and observations about the building and the security team, though it's too early to detect patterns. He manages a couple of contributions of his own.

The doctor returns, though she ignores them for her computer.

About five minutes later, the door opens again and two of Keane's men step in. Doctor Kozak frowns and stands, briskly moving around her desk. “What are you doing here? I haven't requested...”

Whatever it is that she hasn't requested they'll never know because her words abruptly end in a rattle, then a sharp crack.

He raises his head just in time to see her drop, one of the security guys grabbing her and dragging her behind her desk while the other stands by the door, then the first guard turns and...

There's a sharp intake of breath on his left. Nile swears softly.

Booker blinks once, twice, but it can't be real. It's impossible. They are dead. He saw them die. He's only dreaming of Nicky and Joe, of his boys – he doesn't remember being drugged, but perhaps he was. Perhaps it's his time and this is not a bad way to go, though he would have liked to dream of his other children, too – Marie and Jacques and Marie-Jeanne and Henri and Jean-Pierre.

Such a beautiful dream. He's not sure why they don't look like the last time he saw them, why his mind conjures them with shorter hair and a shorter beard in Yusuf's case, but apart from that, every last detail is perfect – their faces, the way they stand, the way they move... simply perfect.

One by one, the chains that hold his family fall away: Nile whispers her thanks, her eyes shining with amazament and a smile blooming on her lips; Andy rises with tears in her eyes, cupping Nicky's face between her hands and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Quýnh's wild, joyous laugh as she throws herself at him, hugging him with such force he has to take a step backwards. He even pulls her daggers out from under the security guard vest as Andy gets a gun from Joe and jokingly complains about favouritism because they didn't bring her axe, but why wouldn't he dream her her axe...

No matter: Nicky is turning to him, moving closer. He should tell him not to come, he's not ready for this lovely dream to be over. He should tell him he loves him, he loves them both, at least here, but he loses himself in watching them.

The belts and restraints are undone. Nicky leans over him, frowning, worried. Any moment, now.

“Booker?” Nicky says and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Papa?”

He can feel his hand. It's warm, heavy. Solid. He knows that hand, how could he not when he saw it grow into its current size, saw it acquire every callus and every scar? He knows the width of its palm and the length of every finger.

Nicky's hand doesn't disappear, doesn't fade, not even when he brings up one of his own trembling hands and touches it, it's still there. He's still there, and Joe hands his submachine gun to Nile and comes to stand next to Nicky, grabs his shoulder. “Booker? Are you okay?”

Booker sits up so fast their heads almost collide, his movements momentarily dislodging Nicky's hand before he reaches out and grabs it again, his left hand reaching out for Joe. They are still warm, still solid – arms and shoulders and cheeks under his hands.

“It's you,” Booker whispers. “It's really you. How...?”

Nicky smiles. “I told you it was destiny.”

“Don't be too smug about it, hayati,” Joe says, but he is grinning, too.

Booker laughs, his eyes swimming with tears, and pulls them both into a hug. His boys, his sons, not by blood but they are still the children of his heart and they are here, in his arms, alive and breathing and... dare he think it? _Immortal._ It seems impossible, unbelievable. A miracle.

Three guards burst through the door and Nile dispatches them quickly before turning back to them. “Hate to interrupt the family reunion, but we have to go, now.”

“Just a moment.” Nicky turns and starts smashing freezers and every single sample Kozak took from them.

Joe moves to her computer, quickly looking through her last activities and deleting as he goes. “She had more than that. I got the location, it's not far.”

“We must stop Merrick or he'll never stop coming after us,” Andy says.

“We could split.” Joe says.

Andromache makes a face, then nods. “All right.”

“Andy!”

She rolls her eyes at him, the hypocrite. “You can go with them, Booker. But we are all walking out of here together, got it?”

There's a disjointed chorus of “Yes Andy” and “Yes Boss.”

Andromache looks at them, at their family, and smiles. “All right. Let's get that motherfucker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hej Sokoły:** Hey falcons, 19th century Ukrainian-Polish song. You can listen to it [here](https://morvith.tumblr.com/post/639602166205743104/hej-sokoly-polish-ukrainian-version)
> 
> **Habibi:** my love. Yusuf was being a bit sarcastic there (which, if tumblr didn't steer me wrong, is actually an accurate usage. Sorry I can't credit the original poster) 
> 
> **Nonna:** grandmother in Italian
> 
> **Köln:** Cologne (Germany)
> 
> **Anne-Marie Martin, Jean Sébastien Dubois:** according to Google, Martin and DuBois are the most common and the sixth most common French surnames respectively. 
> 
> **Tante:** aunt in French.
> 
> **Russian war song:** [When we were at war](https://morvith.tumblr.com/post/640865946518667264/aka-andromaches-not-lullaby)
> 
> **Over the hills and far away:** 17th century English folk song often associated with the British army, definitely sung during the Napoleonic wars. You can see why Booker wouldn't like it. (On a different note, whenever Nicky or Joe were upset with him, they used to treat him to Greatest Hits of The Napoleonic Wars – English and Spanish edition.) You can find it [here](https://morvith.tumblr.com/post/640865951003312128/andromaches-second-not-lullaby)
> 
> **Westermarck effect:** also known as reverse sexual imprinting. According to this psychological hypothesis, people who live in close domestic proximity during the first few years of their lives become desensitized to sexual attraction. In other words, Booker thinks Joe and Nicky shouldn't be attracted to each other because they were raised together, forgetting that a) they never considered themselves brothers, b) they weren't raised together from birth.
> 
> **les goddams:** French slur against the English. 
> 
> **The lovers of Valdaro, of Alepotrypa:** the lovers of Valdaro and the lovers of Alepotrypa are two pairs of embracing skeletons found in Italy (2007) and Greece (2014). The lovers of Valdaro are embracing while facing each other (the forehead bump, anyone?), while the lovers of Alepotrypa have the man laying behind the woman with their arms draped over each other and their legs intertwined (in short, just like Nicky and Joe sleep)
> 
> **Mes poulets:** my little chickens, a French term of endearment for children. Now, was he talking to his biological children or to Joe and Nicky? Or both? (I honestly don't know myself)
> 
> **Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!  
>  Les aristocrates à la lanterne,  
> Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!  
> Les aristocrates on les pendra  
> Si on n' les pend pas  
> On les rompra  
> Si on n' les rompt pas  
> On les brûlera.  
> Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira...:** chorus of _Ça ira_ , an emblematic song of the French revolution. This is the Jacobin version – yes, it's the “extremely inappropriate version” little Joe and little Nicky taught their classmates. I didn't expect to actually find lyrics a modern teacher would find inappropriate (keep in mind the modern/traditional versions keep the first 4 lines unchanged and they're hardly peaceful), but once I did, I had to use them.
> 
> Translation: it will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine/the aristocrats on the streetlights/it will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine/we shall hang the aristocrats/If we won't hang them/we shall break them/if we won't break them/we shall burn them/it will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine...
> 
> **Au countraire:** on the contrary in French.
> 
> **25° C:** 77° F
> 
> **the U-boot base in Saint-Nazaire:** there is indeed a former U-boot base in Saint-Nazaire (Loire-Atlantique), built by the Germans during World War II. Building it required 480,000 m³ (627,816. 297 cubic yards) of concrete. 
> 
> **South Africa, the drunk driving capital of the world:** it really is, according to Google.
> 
> **Hayati:** my life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/8201.html?thread=2883337#cmt2883337) at [theoldguardkinkmeme](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/)
> 
> With many thanks to illeatyoursoulwithmustard for checking the French sentences - if you find more mistakes or bad translations, they're my responsibility. Also, please let me know so I can correct them. 
> 
> Also thank you to [StarWatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarWatcher/pseuds/StarWatcher) for _The Old Guard Movie Transcript_ : it was extremely helpful, a wonderful resource and it saved me a lot of time. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos! You are all wonderful!


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